


Where the Dead Go

by Margaret Ann (Manderson)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Afterlife, Death, F/M, Gen, Heroism, Matter of Life and Death, Running, Writers, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6346558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manderson/pseuds/Margaret%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tenth Doctor and Rose find themselves in a strange town populated by...the dead? It's a mystery they can't ignore, especially if they want to get home!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Dead Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prophetic_Fortune_Cookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prophetic_Fortune_Cookie/gifts).



Fires rose high into the night, their flames painting the sky a shifty, glowing orange. Columns of black smoke rose from burning buildings, and the scent of charred flesh and ozone stung the noses of the children as they ran. “C’mon, Emmalise,” the older of the two said, her voice muffled by the shirt pressed to her face.

“I’m trying, Willa!” rasped the other. She stumbled on debris and stones, nearly falling flat when her bare toes caught the hem of her nightgown.

Willa stopped and grabbed her sister’s hand. “Try harder!” Half-running, half-dragging, she tugged her sister along the road to the outskirts of the city.

Suddenly, engines roared above them. Their throaty growls were accompanied by the screeching of metal as bombs were readied. The sisters ducked into the bombed-out entrance of what had been a grocery store and huddled under a counter as the ground bucked and churned beneath them. Emmalise buried her face and whimpered, “I want Mummy and Daddy.”

“I do, too, lovey,” whispered Willa. She stroked her sister’s hair and held her close, staring through the cracks in the splintery wood at the hell that was their hometown. She didn’t dare mention the fear on their mother’s face when the woman had dragged them from bed and told them to run, or explain the high-pitched whistle and explosion when they’d been a few blocks away. She didn’t dare mention that their mother was dead, and their father, too, probably. If the enemy was winning this badly, it could only mean that he had failed.

The ground settled, and the roaring engines faded into the distance. Willa held her breath for a long moment, listening intently over the flames and screams and horror outside. After a moment, she nodded and crawled out from under the counter. “We have to keep going,” she told her sister.

Emmalise drew breath to protest, but she caught the look in her sister’s round, pale eyes. She nodded instead.

More buildings burned along the sidewalks, and burnt-out vehicles lined the street. Glass sparkled in the firelight, jagged crystals reaching for unwary toes. Willa saw people emerging hesitantly from other storefronts, then picking their way towards the edge of town. Towards safety, hopefully. Some carried packs full of valuables; others, like the sisters, were still in their nightclothes. Most were dark with soot and—frighteningly—blood. 

Willa scooped her sister up in her arms. “Hold tight,” she said to the girl, and Emmalise twined her chubby arms around Willa’s neck. Carefully she picked her way through the ruins, telling herself to just keep going. One step at a time. She had no idea what they’d do when they were safe, whether there’d be a place for all the survivors of the attack, whether there would be planes or trucks to take them all safely or if they’d have to hide and camp and walk there themselves. She didn’t think about clothes or food, though she would’ve traded her entire library for a drink of water. She just kept her mind on the girl in her arms and the obstacles at her feet.

They were nearly to the forest when the deep, growly, throaty roar of engines found her ears. As one she and the other refugees looked up toward the smoky sky. A trio of jets, huge and foul, flew overhead. Search beams swung on either side of its conical nose, then landed on Willa and Emmalise and everyone else. They stood, frozen in the beams, for a long moment.

Then they began to run.

Glass and stones and worse sliced Willa’s feet to ribbons as she scrambled over the broken concrete. Her lungs ached for fresh air, and her sister was a leaden weight in her arms. She didn’t dare let go.

Behind her, she could hear the whistling sound again, growing closer with every passing second. The ground began to tremble again as the bombs hit the streets behind them: the school, the office building, the grocery store where they’d hidden. Ahead, she heard a strange sawing noise, and something seemed to materialize out of thin air. A man with a mop of curly hair peeked out at them, but the whistling was growing louder and Willa couldn’t hear what he was saying. She saw his hand outstretched and reached for it— 

And then the light flashed.

~~~~~

“1911, Southampton, Hampshire. The largest city along the southern coast of England and the home of one of the country’s largest, most bustling, most celebrated seaports. All the big ships leave here, including ours today.” The Doctor threw the last of the switches on the console, and the scraping noise of the TARDIS’s engines stopped. Despite being a Time Lord and having training in making his vehicle run, he never quite figured out how to make it run silently and smoothly. Granted, the see-saw noise was so much a part of his being after so many previous lives that he couldn’t imagine flying without it. He re-buttoned his brown suit coat and added, “At least, if you’re ever ready.”

“Hold your horses! I’m almost there,” Rose called back. She stuffed a few more things in her carpet bag and checked her golden curls one last time. They were twisted tightly into a knot at the base of her neck, and she plopped a platter-sized hat bedecked with a variety of wax fruits on top of her head. “You did say ‘ _ eleven _ ,’ right, Doctor? Not ‘twelve’?”

“For the last time, yes, 1911.”

“Good.” She stuck the hatpin in with an air of finality and grabbed the bag from its stand. “Let’s go sailing.”

The Doctor looked up from the console and grinned to hide the sudden skipping of his hearts. The girl standing in the doorway was petite, her slim form made even more so by the stays under her elegant dress. The white jacket with its navy pinstripe was double-breasted below a high collar, and the skirt was close to her legs. Heeled boots gave her an extra two inches in height, and the hat added an extra few, as well. She looked like a fashion plate, or—

“Did you borrow that from that movie about ten years back?” he heard himself saying.

“Did I?” asked Rose, her face falling slightly. “You’re the one who had it in your closet! I just knew it was pretty close to what they would’ve worn. After last time I don’t want to be threatened with the stake for not dressing properly.”

“I’ve already apologized for that,” the Doctor began.

“I know you have, but I don’t want a repeat of Salem is all. And Edwardian England is so much more prim than the Puritan colonies.” She smoothed the skirt of her suit and hefted her bag. “Well, are we going or what?”

The Doctor grinned once more. “The  _ Olympic  _ awaits!” He threw open the door to the TARDIS.

Instead of the hustle and bustle of pre-departure Southampton, however, they were greeted by the sight of gently rolling green hills and a brilliant azure sky. A sweet-scented breeze ruffled the Doctor’s short, dark hair, and it tugged a few stubborn strands from Rose’s bun. In the valley below they could see ribbons of brown streets and small figures moving about, though no houses were immediately evident. In the distance rose purple-gray mountains capped with snow and frothy clouds. The sun hung above them like a lantern, on its descent for the day.

“This isn’t Southampton,” Rose noted, her voice vaguely accusing.

“It isn’t,” agreed the Doctor. He looked around the scenery before them.

“Because if this was Southampton, there’d be a boat—”

“Ship,” corrected the Doctor absently.

“—And people boarding the boat—”

“ _ Ship _ .”

“—And it wouldn’t smell like wildflowers and the countryside. It’d smell...well, to be entirely honest, like an alley after the pubs have closed, only probably worse.”

“Such language for a lady,” said the Doctor. 

“Doctor.” Rose reached forward with one gloved hand and tugged his sleeve. He turned and looked into her trusting eyes. “So, if we aren’t in Southampton, where are we?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But I bet I know who will.”

“Who?”

He nodded his sharp chin down towards the valley. “The people who live there.”

The Doctor gave her all of five minutes to change from a complicated Edwardian fashion plate to her standard self: jeans, a t-shirt, her favorite zip-up hoodie, and a pair of sneakers. Always the sneakers—she never knew when she might need to run. If she’d learned anything in her months with the Doctor, it was the value of a good, solid pair of sneakers.

She left her hair up, though. He  _ did _ only give her five minutes, after all. 

He was leaning against the doorframe when she reappeared, stuffing her mobile phone in her pocket and adjusting the chain holding her TARDIS key around her neck. “Ready?”

“How come you never wear anything different, Doctor?” she asked as she bounded out the door in front of him.

“What’s the point? If they notice my clothes, then I must be doing something wrong. Man in a suit—they’re not going to notice. A woman’s ankles? Whole wars have been started over that.” He shut the door behind him and locked it tight.  

“Wars? Over ankles?” Rose picked her way down the grassy hill towards the valley.

The Doctor reached out his hand to help steady her. “Don’t they teach Homer in schools anymore?”

“That yellow bloke from the telly?” Rose burst out laughing at the pained expression on her Doctor’s face. “I’m only teasing. The poet. Blind, Greek, books weigh five kilos. That one.”

“Right. In  _ The Iliad _ , one of his poems, Helen is the wife of a Greek king. This Trojan fellow, Paris, catches sight of her, and boom—Trojan War. Heroes die, cities burn, the bit with a horse. All because of a shapely ankle.” 

“Yeah, in a storybook,” laughed Rose. She hopped down from a ledge onto a beaten dirt path, then gasped. “Doctor, look!”

The Doctor turned around, then grinned. “Speaking of storybooks...look at that!”

Built into the grassy knoll was a round, wooden door painted a brilliant shade of green. Set in its center was an ornate brass knob, and under eaves of drooping plants were two windows. The room inside was hidden in shadows, but a clever little tin stovepipe jutted out from among the weedy roof. Closer inspection revealed a pair of gardens on either side of the door, one filled with flowers gone native and the other with herbs. It was a charming little place, and looking up the hill the pair could see several similar doors they’d overlooked in their descent—once they knew the signs, at least.

“Doctor,” the blonde asked, “have you brought me to New Zealand? Isn’t that where those films were made, with all the little people?” 

“The Hobbits,” he agreed. “They certainly look like them, don’t they?” He leaned in close and attempted to peer into a window, but saw nothing but his own reflection in the murky glass. “But I don’t think they are.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we could go in without stooping. You could, anyway. I might need to stoop a bit.” He caught his companion’s sour expression in the window behind him. “What?”

She stared at him, hands on her hips. “Are you saying I’m short again?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” He straightened and adjusted his jacket. “Doesn’t seem to be anyone at home. Let’s keep going. Maybe down in the village there we can learn something.”

Since they’d found the dirt path, they made much better time. Here and there they passed the low, rounded dugouts with their strange circular doors, but they still saw no inhabitants. The wind blew with a melancholy sound over the heather and grass, seeming for all the world like a crying ghost. Rose drew her hoodie closer around herself, suppressing a shudder at the sound. The Doctor strode on, apparently unconcerned.

They were nearly in the bottom of the bowl when the ground changed from packed earth to flat paving stones, clean and shining brightly in the sunshine. They crossed a wooden bridge over a wide, shallow stream and stepped into a broad square. Though there were stalls standing about, some even still displaying their wares, it was abandoned. “It’s like a movie set…” murmured Rose. She took a step towards one of the stalls and picked up a small glass vial. “I almost expect to see actors coming on to do a scene.” She pulled the stopper and sniffed, then made a face. “Whatever this is, it smells awful.”

The Doctor plucked it from her fingertips and swirled the liquid inside. Delicately he dipped one pinky in, then licked the contents off. “What I thought. Ink.”

“Ink?”

“For writing, I imagine.” He replaced the stopper and put the bottle back on the stall. “And look here—books.” He strode to a splintery table and picked up one of the leather-bound volumes. “Blank. A journal, if I had to guess.”

“Didn’t villages like this used to sell food back in the day? Not paper?” Rose picked up a long goose quill and brushed her finger along the stiff vane, separating a few barbs from their fellows.

“I suppose it depends on the village. Maybe they eat paper here.” 

She shuddered. “Pity. Someone should introduce them to chips.”

“At least they’d be getting their daily fiber,” joked the Doctor.

“Funny,” replied his companion drily. She put down the first quill and picked up another. Looking around the empty square, she absently began splitting it the same as before.

Suddenly, they heard the slapping sound of running feet coming towards them. “Stop!”

Both of the time travelers looked up and saw a man, late middle-aged, running towards them. His hair was a sort of chlorinated greenish-blond, like someone who has spent too much time in a swimming pool, and thin on top. His eyes were watery blue and drooping, and his skin hung from his jowls like pale leather. “Put that down!” he cried, waving his hands in Rose’s direction.

She looked down at the quill in her grasp, then blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“Put that quill down!” The man rushed up, snatched the it from her fingers, and placed it lovingly back in the jar with the others. He gave it a gentle, loving pat, and Rose shared a look with the Doctor.

“I’m sorry—” she began.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to touch things if they aren’t yours? Would you like it if I came into  _ your _ shop and began messing about with things you were trying to sell?” The man rearranged the quills in their jar into an arrangement he found more aesthetically pleasing before whirling to face the travelers once more.

“Is this your stall, then?” asked the Doctor. 

“Only in the broadest of senses,” replied the man. He crossed his arms over his chest. “All of this belongs to me only inasmuch that I am the mayor of this town.”

“The mayor! Brilliant!” The Doctor grinned and stuck out one hand. “I’m the Doctor, and this is Rose. Glad to meet you, Mr. Mayor!”

The man looked at the outstretched hand with distaste, but his expression only lasted for an instant before it morphed into one of welcome. He took the hand and shook it. “Welcome.”

Rose  glanced around the square, trying to shake the feeling that something was  _ off _ about the man, when her eye caught some movement from inside one of the buildings. “Doctor, look!”

Both men turned in the direction she was staring. “What is it, Rose?” asked the Doctor.

“I saw someone moving just now. This place  _ isn’t _ abandoned!”

“Of course not!” scoffed the balding mayor. “A fine leader I’d be, running a town with only one person in it. No, everyone saw strangers coming and hid.”

“‘Hid’?” repeated the Doctor, a troubled expression in his dark eyes. “Why would they hide from strangers?”

“You’d hide, too, if you’d lived their lives,” said the mayor. Before either traveler could ask what he meant, he called out, “They’re safe! No need for alarm!”

Slowly, hesitantly, figures began emerging from the buildings surrounding the square. People in all sorts of strange garb appeared: thin, bald men in heavy robes of coarsely-woven wool; women in gauzy tunics so sheer they brought a blush to Rose’s cheeks; high-stiff collars and tight-fitting jackets; children in clothing from all eras of history. They hovered around the edges of the square, whispering uncertainly. The mayor gave them encouraging smiles, and they slowly seemed to return to their work. 

One of the men walked nervously to the booth by which the mayor and the travelers stood, his eyes cast to the ground. His hair was dark and faintly curly on either side of a sharp widow’s peak. His eyes were hollow and filled with an infinite loneliness, and his hands trembled slightly as he began arranging his quills. He muttered under his breath, “‘It was many and many a year ago in a kingdom by the sea…’”

Rose made a face at his old-fashioned speech in the coarse American accent, but the Doctor’s eyes flew open wide. He continued, “‘That a maiden there lived who you may know—’”

“‘By the name of Annabelle Lee,’” the Doctor and the shopkeep finished together. The shopkeeper looked up, surprise evident on his sorrowful face. “You know that poem?”

“Of course I know that poem!” exclaimed the Doctor. “‘Annabelle Lee’ is one of the finest pieces of gothic poetry to come from the States.” He turned to the confused-looking Rose and said, “Wonderful tragic tale of lovers separated by her angry kinsman, but their souls were so entwined they weren’t even really apart, even in death. Poe wrote it right before he died; it wasn’t published until afterwards.”

“It was published?” asked the shopkeep. “But I—I’d hardly edited it—”  

The Doctor ducked a little and stared into the broad face of the shopkeep. “Mr. Poe?” he asked.

“Who else would I be?” replied the pale man. “I wouldn’t call the poem ‘mine’ if it weren’t.”

The Doctor stepped back, as if struck. He glanced around the square, his sharp eyes taking in all the people. In the sunshine by a wall was a rail-thin girl with short, frizzy hair and a slightly-too-small dress, scribbling rapidly in a red-cloth diary. A nearly-bald man in a toga carried scrolls from one of the stalls. A pair of women, their curls caught up in leather bands, curled together languidly on a grassy roof, reading poems to one another from clay tablets. Anachronistically a goateed man typed rapidly on a typewriter, putting each completed page beneath a stone. Slowly, he turned to the mayor. “What did you say this town was?”

“I didn’t,” the man replied. He took a step back and said, “You can call me the Chronicler. Welcome to Elysium.”

~~~~~

“‘Elysium?’” Rose asked later, plucking at the rough woolen blanket on one of the pair of beds in the house they’d been assigned. The rope supporting the mattress sagged with an ominous creaking noise under her weight, and she made a mental note to eat more salads when she got home.

“Greek underworld,” replied the Doctor as he paced back and forth. Despite the low appearance of the houses from the street, there was more than enough headroom for the tall, gangly man to move—as long as he stayed near the center. His sneakers tapped on the terracotta floor, and his long body cast shadows as he passed between the lanterns. “Well, one of the Greek underworlds, anyway. Hades is where the unremarkable people went, while Elysium was reserved for heroes. Demigods, people who’d made their mark on the world, righteous people. They all ended up in Elysium, where there was feasting and pleasure all the time.”

“Like heaven, then.”

“Like heaven.” The Doctor paused and rubbed his nose. “Actually, I believe that’s where the Western notion of heaven came from, to be honest.” He shrugged and resumed his pacing. 

“But Doctor…” began Rose hesitantly. “If this is Elysium...some sort of heaven...does that mean we’re dead?” She patted her stomach. “Is that why I’m not hungry, even if we haven’t eaten since this morning?”

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “If we were dead, I’m sure I’d know it. I doubt heaven is Hobbiton.”

“Still…” Rose groped at her arm, then swallowed hard. “Doctor, I can’t find my pulse.”

“Inside of the wrist, right where the veins stick up,” he replied absently.

She felt around, panic rising slightly. “I don’t want to be dead yet,” she whispered. “Doctor…”

The man strode over to her. His face was soft as he took her hand. He placed it on the side of his neck, in the warm hollow just below his earlobe. Beneath her fingertips she felt the strange double-throb of his heartbeat. As if jumpstarted by his she felt her own pulse begin to race. As she stared into his eyes she was glad for the flickering light of the lamps on the walls so he couldn’t see the heat rise to her cheeks.

“I’m still alive,” the Doctor said quietly. “As long as I am, you are, too. This place might be called ‘Elysium,’ but it’s not the afterlife.”

“Right,” whispered Rose. She swallowed hard, her mouth cottony-dry. His lips were tantalizingly close—

He dropped her hand and stood. “But if this isn’t the afterlife, how did all these people get here?” he asked no one in particular.

Rose sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, trying to calm down. “Set up shop, I suppose. Carts and all that.”

“No, they couldn’t have,” countered the Doctor. “They’re from all over the universe. Many from Earth, but plenty from other places, too. You saw them as we were walking with the Chronicler.”

She nodded, remembering the strange assortment of figures they’d seen. There’d been gray, sheeplike things tending a field, and a group of red, waifish creatures fishing and reading aloud to each other from what looked like an iridescent cube. They’d passed a paper mill run by long-legged bird-men and a mixed group of aliens arguing about the proper meter for writing poetry from some place called “Luffbury.” “So they took spaceships to get here. A haven for writers and readers, like he told us. Sounds a bit too much like school to me, but one of my mates was always into it.”

“You’re missing the point,” replied the Doctor, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice. “This isn’t some sort of intergalactic writer’s retreat. All of these people—everyone here is  _ dead _ .”

Rose sat up. “No, they’re not. They’re walking around. They’re selling things. They’re making paper. They can’t be dead.”

“Rose, we saw  _ Edgar Allan Poe _ today. American poet. Died in a gutter in 1849. Invented the mystery story. And that little girl we passed—the one with the red journal...ring any bells?”

The blond racked her brain. “Short dress, short hair, could use a sandwich?”

“That was Anne Frank.”

Rose stood. “You’re joking.”

“I’d never joke about something like that.” The Doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out his sonic screwdriver.

“But how could they be here! She died, what, in World War II?”

“1945,” responded the Doctor, changing the settings on the tool in his hands.

“So how could two people who died a hundred years apart be alive in the same place and time?” Rose shivered again.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” muttered the Doctor. He pressed a button on the side of his sonic screwdriver. It made a pathetic little buzzing noise, then stopped. He slapped it against his palm, then tried again. It didn’t even light up.

“Doctor, what’s wrong with your screwdriver?” asked the young woman. She walked to him and stood at his elbow.

“I don’t know. Something’s interfering with it, I think. Could be whatever is running this place. Whatever energy there is, or maybe there’s something about the magnetic field here—” He slapped it against his palm again. “Need to get back to the TARDIS. Maybe we can find something in her database about this planet.”

Rose wanted to ask how he couldn’t know; her Doctor always knew everything about everywhere, even when they ended up in the wrong place. The thought that he didn’t know what this one was made her stomach roll unpleasantly. “It’s dark out now,” she said. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

He looked at her pointed face and saw the unease in her wide eyes. “It’s not like you to be afraid of the dark.”

“I’m not afraid,” she protested. “Just...there’s no light going up that hill again, is there? It’s a long way to fall if we miss a step.” She didn’t mention that the thought of being surrounded by all of the supposedly-dead people made her want to run in the opposite direction, even if it meant staying inside and waiting until morning.

The Doctor didn’t press. “Tomorrow, then,” he agreed. He shoved the sonic screwdriver back in his pocket. “Leave the lights on for a little longer?”

“Thank you.” Rose kicked off her sneakers and crawled under the blanket. Itchy as it was, she was soon asleep.

The Doctor watched her for a few minutes, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her golden hair shone slightly in the flickering lamplight. His fingers twitched with the desire to adjust the blanket around her, to tuck her in as one might a child, but he remained where he stood, just watching. He didn’t want to wake her.

Once he’d determined that she was going to stay asleep—they’d been traveling long enough for him to learn the signs—he left. The door he closed tightly behind him to keep out the chill night air. The moon was bright enough to light his way back towards the center of town. He strode with purpose; he needed to find out what was going on with this town. Rose’s concerns about the afterlife had struck a chord within him; he didn’t know why, but he knew that this town wasn’t all it seemed to be. It wasn’t heaven, though. He was sure of that much. Nor was it hell; he and Rose had already escaped that particular beastie. But this Elysium…

He walked up to the door of the largest building in the town square. All around he saw figures still bent over their books, reading and writing by moonlight. Some held candles close to their pages; others had moved to brighter perches on the grassy roofs of the buildings. The man with the typewriter clacked away at his keys.

The Doctor hesitated, his hand hovering to knock on the door, then he walked over to the man. He didn’t look up from the machine, even when the Doctor stood purposefully in his light. “Hello, there!” the brown-haired Time Lord chirped. “Fine time of night to be writing away, isn’t it?”

“Hmm,” the writer replied.

The Doctor sank into a squat and peeked over the page. “Mind if I take a peek?” The writer didn’t reply, so the Doctor plucked a sheet from under the rock paperweight. Aloud, he read, “‘At once Horselover Fat leaped to the conclusion that this was her way of asking for help. It had been Fat’s delusion for years that he could help people.’” He looked up. “I know this one.  _ Valis _ , right?”

“Good title,” harrumphed the writer.

The Doctor looked more closely at the man. “And if you’re the writer, that means you’re Philip K. Dick, right?”

“Yes, and I’m on a deadline. Need to get this book written. Do you mind?” asked the man, fingers clacking away at the keys.

“Sorry,” answered the Time Lord. He didn’t move.

Finally, Philip looked up. His eyes were vaguely glassy in a way that startled the Doctor. His hair was shot with gray and brushed back from a tall forehead. Wrinkles scored his face. “What do you want?” asked the writer. “Why won’t you leave me to my words?”

“May I see your hand?” asked the Doctor. He held out his own, palm up.

“Why?” asked the other man warily. He tucked his hands close to his body. “The stains are from tobacco. Can’t work without a smoke sometimes. You’re not going to find anything else on there. I’ve gone straight, you see. Finished with the rest of the stuff a long time ago.” A nervous note entered his gravelly voice as he spoke.

“No, nothing like that,” promised the Doctor. “I’ve known enough writers in my time to not be offended by their vices. You wouldn’t believe what Shakespeare enjoyed. Just, let me see your hand a moment.”

Hesitantly Philip extended one hand. The Doctor took it and pulled it towards him. With enough speed to make it seem like an accident, he sliced the man’s fingertip with the sheet of paper.

“Ouch! Damn you, what was that for?” The writer retracted his hand and examined his finger. A line of blood bubbled forth from the narrow cut. “How can I type with this? I’ll never get my draft done in time!”

“Sorry about that,” replied the Doctor. He reached into one of his pockets and fished out a bandage. “Here, let me fix it.”

Philip scowled. “I’m not letting you touch me again.”

“It’s just a plaster. I’ll put it on and you’ll be good as new. Come now, there’s a good lad.” He gently took Philip’s hand again and wrapped the bandage around the injured digit. Surreptitiously he felt for a pulse in the man’s wrist, and was surprised to find one. He kept his face smooth and calm, however, and stuffed the packaging into his pocket. “Thanks for the chat.” He stood and strode across the square.

The man’s hand had been warm. He’d bled, and he had a pulse.  _ Somehow _ , the Doctor mused,  _ knowing that doesn’t help _ .

~~~~~

Rose stirred on the unfamiliar bed. In her dreams, she was running from faceless, nameless creatures clamoring for her death. Bombs exploded in the distance, and the air was thick with smoke and screams, and she choked on it as she stumbled over the broken pavement. One jagged corner caught her bare foot, and she tumbled to the ground. Cold, fishy hands reached for her, and she tried to scramble away from them, but the ground beneath her hands was like hot coals, scratching and burning and— 

Her eyes flew open in the darkness. The lamps had gone out. Across the room she heard movement and thuds. She was about to call out to see what the Doctor was up to when an unfamiliar female voice said, “It’s not here.”

“It’s not here,” another voice, a man’s, repeated. She heard the thunk of something falling to the wooden floor.

“Why is it not here? Only the other one is,” said the female voice. Rose heard feet scuffling close to her bed, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Her heart thrummed loudly in her ears, and she sent out a mental cry to the Doctor. She’d been in plenty of scrapes before, faced down Daleks and Cybermen and the worst that the universe could throw at her, but right here, in this place named after the world of the dead, she wasn’t keen on getting kidnapped.

She forced her breathing to remain neutral even as she sensed the figure near her bending in close. A few strands of hair tickled her cheek, and her fists clenched under the blanket.  _ My shoes are of _ , she thought,  _ but I can still run if I have to. The Doctor has more in the TARDIS. Doctor, where are you? _

A wave of cool air washed over her, and she heard the feet shuffling back to the other side of the room. “That one’s asleep,” the woman’s voice said.

“That one is,” repeated the man’s. “The other is not here.”

“The other is not here,” repeated the woman. There was a pause, and she said, “Understood. We will return to our places.”

_ Who’s she talking to there? _ wondered Rose. She wasn’t about to sit up and ask or anything, but it certainly sounded like she was talking to someone over a headset. It couldn’t be the man in the room, though. She kept her eyes closed until she heard the feet clomp outside. She peeked through one mostly-shut lid and saw a woman in a long coat and a man with wavy hair and a walking stick silhouetted in the moonlight. They shut the door.

Only then did she dare sit up. Explosively she let go of the breath she’d hardly noticed she was holding. Her pulse raced dizzily with adrenaline, and she was glad for it: it meant that she was still alive. She drew her knees to her chest and stared in the direction of the door.

She wouldn’t be getting any more sleep tonight. That much was certain.

~~~~~

The Chronicler wore a robe of soft, plush velvet thrown over his pajamas, but his eyes were clear when he opened the door to the Doctor. “What brings you here at this hour?” he asked amicably enough, but with a slight edge of irritation to his voice.

“Just thought I’d pop ‘round for a friendly chat,” replied the Doctor cheerily. “Tough time sleeping in a new place and all. I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

“Perhaps the morning would be better—” began the balding man. 

“No time like the present!” interrupted the Doctor. He gently shoved his way into the Chronicler’s house.

The door opened into a large, low livingroom. Bookshelves were built into every wall, interrupted only by the stone fireplace on the far wall. Flames danced merrily on the grate, eating away at a large log. A pair of oversized armchairs were drawn in front of it, and on a small table beside one of the chairs rested a heavy clay mug and a leather-bound volume. The Doctor strode across the rag rug on the wooden floor and examined the book. “Ah, a volume of Byron!” he said, flipping through it.

“I would prefer—” began the Chronicler nervously.

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t lose your place,” replied the Time Lord. He set it back on the table and plopped down on the armchair. “So, Mr. Chronicler, what can you tell me about Elysium?” He crossed one leg over the opposite knee and leaned back comfortably.

“Just the Chronicler,” he said. He swept over and gathered his mug and book, then set them down lovingly on the table beside the other chair. He sat down primly, adjusting his robe over his knees. “And what can I tell you that I haven’t before? I already explained it to you when you arrived, before I allowed you to stay in one of the empty houses for the duration of your stay.”

“Yes, yes, I know what you told me,” said the Doctor with a dismissive wave of his hand. “‘A quiet place for writers to go to hone their craft.’ But I want to know more about it. Where did you come up with the idea? And why ‘Elysium’? Isn’t that where the heroes go?”

The Chronicler smiled. “It is. Very good, Doctor.”

“I know my mythology. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Elysium is for heroes, and who can be more heroic than those who record the deeds of others for posterity’s sake? Those who spend their lives in pursuit of the perfect story, the one which will both thrill and bring their readers to tears?”

“A bit like a riddle, then,” mused the Doctor with a grin. “If a hero saves a kitten and no one is around to tell the tale after, did he really save anyone?”

“Precisely.” The Chronicler leaned forward, a his wispy green-gold hair shining in the firelight. “I wanted to create a place for those writers to go, to tell the stories they never had a chance to finish.”

“Really.” The Doctor’s mind flashed back to the line from  _ Valis _ he’d read earlier. “Not to rewrite the stories they’ve already written?”

The other man shrugged. “They can do that, too. You know what they say, Doctor: a story is never truly finished; merely satisfactory for the moment.”

“I see.” The Doctor tapped his fingers on his knee. “Where did they all come from, then? How did all these writers get here?”

“I don’t ask about the travel arrangements of my denizens,” shrugged the Chronicler again. “I just give them accommodations when they arrive.”

The Doctor bit back a scowl. The pale, placid face of the Chronicler was smooth and calm, an unruffled sea that might as well be marble for all the reaction he could read on it. The nervousness had been tucked away, replaced by a palpable sense of self-satisfaction. The Doctor didn’t like it.

However, he could think of no way to demand a real explanation. All he had to go on was the vague feeling of unease the town gave him, the sense that something was terminally  _ off _ about it, and calling out the Chronicler on the basis of those feelings alone would give him no reliable answers. Inwardly he was annoyed at Rose for keeping him in town overnight; he wanted nothing more than to run to the TARDIS and get all the answers he could from its databanks. Somewhere it would have record of a town called Elysium populated by supposedly-dead authors.

“If that’s all…” suggested the Chronicler pointedly.

“Thanks for the info,” said the Doctor, pasting a smile on his face. “I’m looking forward to seeing more of the town tomorrow.”

“I hope you like what you see. Only, do try not to disturb my authors. They’re a touchy bunch, and they get upset when their rhythm is broken.” The Chronicler stood and escorted the lanky Time Lord to the door. “Have a good night, then.”

“You, as well,” replied the Doctor. He stepped out into the night, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. A cool breeze ruffled his hair, and he glanced one final time around the square. Philip was gone from his spot, but he could see the silhouette of two lovers reading on the roof of one of the buildings. In the golden light shining from the window of another building sat the girl with her journal. He shook his head and walked back towards the house he was sharing with Rose.

~~~~~

Rose woke and stretched to sunlight streaming through the window by the door. Her back ached slightly from the uncomfortable position and saggy mattress, and she felt groggy. “Is there any tea?” she grumbled, pushing her mussed blonde hair out of her face.

A warm, heavenly scent wafted steamily to her nose, and she took the mug offered to her by the brown-suited Doctor. “Thanks,” she murmured, taking a long swallow of the faintly sweet liquid.

“You’re welcome. Sleep well?” he walked over to the wall and returned to his examinations of it.

“Yeah.” Something tugged at the back of her mind, two figures hazy like dreams, but they faded as soon as she tried to remember them. She took another swallow of tea and asked, “Have you been up all night, then?”

“Something’s strange about this place. I’m trying to figure it out.” He dragged his fingers along a shelf of paperback books, tugging lightly on each one.

“So you spent the entire night examining this house from top to bottom?” She shuddered. “Sounds miserable.”

“Better than just waiting for sunrise so we can go check and see if the TARDIS knows anything.”

Rose winced. She slurped the rest of the tea in her mug and retrieved her sneakers. “You could’ve woken me up.”

“You looked like you needed the rest,” he replied. He turned, smiling cheerfully at her. He always kind of liked how she looked first thing in the morning: makeup smudged, face softly drowsy, hair a golden halo around her head instead of tamed back with clips and hairspray. She was far more beautiful without all that teasing nonsense she did— _ objectively speaking, of course _ , he told himself.  _ For a human _ .

The young woman gathered her hair back and pulled it into a quick loop at the back of her head, making a mental note to get a trim next time they were near the estate. It was getting a little long for her taste. “Is something wrong?” she asked, catching the Doctor’s eye. 

He jerked as if startled and shook his head quickly. “Nothing. All ready?”

“As I can be this early,” she replied. She followed him out the door.

Their calves were screaming for mercy by the time they’d ascended the hill outside of Elysium. The packed dirt path was dry without being dusty, but it was still steeper than anything they normally walked. No one looked up as they passed; their bright morning greetings went unheeded by writers sitting with lap desks or readers lounging on blankets on their rooftops. “Not a very friendly lot, are they?” murmured Rose after they passed a narrow-faced man with a rooster’s crop of brown hair and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d watched them with wary eyes as the passed, then gone back to scribbling in his notebook. 

“Some writers aren’t,” replied the Doctor in a neutral tone. “I suppose we would be a sort of interruption for them, coming unannounced and talking.”

“We’re just being polite, though. Least they could do is nod,” she muttered, doing her best to quelch her irritation. “I’m not going to bite.”

“Let’s just get back to the TARDIS and see what we can learn.”

But when they finally crested the final hill, they saw no familiar blue box. “Where is it?” Rose asked. She scanned the rest of the hills. “Did we miss it? Come the wrong direction?”

“No, this is where it was,” answered the Doctor. He squatted and examined the broken blades of grass at his feet. “I can see the outline of it here.”

She knelt beside him. “Where could it have gone? It wouldn’t just...travel on its own, right? You didn’t program it to go away?”

“No.” The Doctor stood, a dark look in his eyes. 

Rose recognized that look: like the faint shuddering of the Earth it warned of an impending eruption. Gently she said, “We’ll find the TARDIS. Let’s go ask that man, the Chronicler, and maybe he can help us look for it.”

“Right,” answered the Time Lord in a tone that suggested that the town had better rally for the cause.

The blonde struggled to keep up with the Doctor’s long strides as they made their way back to Elysium. She skipped down the path, jogging to catch up with him at times, and was breathing heavily by the time they stood outside the Chronicler’s door in town. Roughly the Doctor pounded on the wooden door.

It opened and revealed the watery-eyed man. “What is it?” he grumped. “Last night you interrupt my reading, and this morning you rouse me from bed—”

“Where is my TARDIS?” interrupted the Doctor, his voice cold.

“What do you mean? What the blazes is a TARDIS?” replied the other with disdain.

“TARDIS. Blue box. Says “police” on the side. It’s how I got here. I need it.” The Doctor’s hands were clenched at his sides.

“What he means to say,” Rose said, slipping slightly between the two men, “is that he was wondering if you could help us look for it. It seems to have disappeared overnight, and we...have something in there we need.”

“I don’t know where it could be. Why would I have it?” The Chronicler crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

Before the Doctor could answer, she said, “Perhaps you might know of someone who had seen it? We could talk to someone in town who would know more.”

“Better them than me,” snorted the Chronicler. “Try the writers up on the hills if you’re looking for someone to talk to. I don’t know anything about a blue box. Excuse me.” He shut the door tightly in their faces.

“I don’t trust that man,” muttered the Doctor under his breath.

“He’s hiding something,” agreed Rose. She dragged her friend away from the door by his sleeve, only stopping once they were in the center of the square. Morning sunshine poured down on them, though the Doctor’s face was still cast in shadow. “Why did he say you disturbed him last night?” she asked, hesitant to ruin his mood further.

“I stopped by to see what I could learn from him.” He looked down and saw the pained expression on her face. “You were already asleep. I didn’t think it’d do any harm.”

Rose swallowed back the slight betrayal she felt knowing that he’d left her without warning. It was one of her greatest fears, being abandoned by him, and to have it happen so casually—

_ No use going into it now _ , she told herself sternly.  _ More important things to worry about _ . Aloud she said, “I had a strange dream.”

The Doctor refrained from rolling his eyes. Barely. “Dreams can’t hurt you,” he said as if to a child.

“This wasn’t any dream, Doctor,” Rose insisted. “People came looking for you. They went around the house trying to find something. They left, though. I don’t know when.”

He paused, looking into her caramel-brown eyes. “Did you see who they were? What did they look like? Was one of them the Chronicler?”

Rose shook her head. “No. It was a man and a woman. I don’t know them.”

“But they were looking for me. And it was a dream?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head again. “I’m not sure. I was dreaming...but then I maybe woke? If it was still a dream, then it was vivid. The woman…” She closed her eyes, trying to recall the silhouettes. “She wore a long coat. And the man had a cane. A sort of walking-stick. Both were old-fashioned. And they repeated each other a lot, I think.” She opened her eyes. “I’m sorry I don’t remember more.”

“Woman in a long coat, man with a cane, both looking for me.” The Doctor nodded decisively. “I say we go on a walk. If they want to talk to me, it’d be a shame to disappoint them.”

“Right.” Rose looked around the square, her eyes flitting from figure to figure. “Perhaps we should split up, though. I go one way, you go the other? We’ll cover more ground.”

“I’ll go back up the hill, then,” said the Doctor. “You stay around here, check the town proper.”

“I’ve got my mobile if I find anything,” she replied. “See you by nightfall?”

“See you.” For a moment, they both hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to say anything. Rose stared at the Doctor’s stern face, her body aching for the feeling of his arms around her. 

But then he turned and walked off into the distance.

She wrapped her arms around herself and examined the square once more. A girl sat in the sunshine, writing in her journal, her short black hair tumbling over sharp cheekbones. Rose shrugged and walked over to her. “Miss, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The girl looked up, her eyes large and luminous in her ghostly white face. She tucked her pointy elbows closer to her skinny body and looked back at her journal. 

Rose racked her brain. This was the girl the Doctor had mentioned the day before, with the red cloth-bound book… “Anne?” she tried. “I want to ask you a question about Elysium, if you have a moment.”

In a voice scarcely louder than a whisper the girl replied, “I can’t. Pim says I must keep absolutely quiet. Otherwise we’ll all be in trouble. They’re always telling me I talk too much.”

The blonde chewed her lip. “What if you just write me the answer, then? That would be quiet, wouldn’t it?”

“Please,” the girl’s voice, rusty with disuse, was so soft Rose imagined she hadn’t even heard it. “I’ll get caught. Just let me write.” She drew her knees even closer, tucking her too-short skirt around herself as best she could, and bent over her diary again.

Rose stared at her, then turned away uneasily. “Pim” had been the name Anne Frank had called her father, if she remembered right from year 9. She hadn’t been the greatest student, but something about the spunkiness of the author (which her mum had termed “bad manners” and “cheek”) had drawn Rose in. The fear in this Anne’s eyes, though...Rose shivered and retreated back to the middle of the square. 

There was a man with his typewriter sitting against the wall, but he seemed preoccupied. A haze of smoke surrounded him, a particular kind of cloud that Rose recognized from the boys who hung out in the dark corners of the estate. Not terribly interested in a contact high—the Doctor would disapprove—she turned her gaze upwards. A pair of women sat reading, one lounging in the other’s lap and twining grass and wildflowers into crowns while the other ran her fingers through the first’s coppery curls.  _ Definitely not going to interrupt them _ , Rose thought, blushing and turning away from the intimate scene.  _ I hope the Doctor is having more luck than I am _ .

~~~~~

Gray birds swooped over the path, startled from their rest by the Doctor’s passage. Some sang their consternation at the disturbance, but others simply found another place to roost in the meantime. Gray birds, emerald grass,  perfectly blue sky, golden sunshine and the purple mountains glistening in the distance—it was almost unreal how much like a painting everything seemed. For that very reason the Doctor’s sense of distrust grew stronger. He typically liked to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, but there was something about Elysium that made his skin crawl. 

He watched as one of the birds swooped down and landed on the shoulder of a writer sitting on his rooftop. The man sat in shirt sleeves, his bushy white beard falling down his chest, and his arm moved rhythmically across the page as he wrote in a book. Something about the movement seemed odd to the Doctor, and the Time Lord climbed the grassy knoll to the roof. “Hello, there!” he said with all the cheer he could muster.

The man didn’t look up from the page.

The Doctor took a few steps closer and examined what he was writing. “‘He was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him. The old man was dreaming about the lions.’” The Doctor nodded. “Ernest Hemingway, then. Nice to meet you, Mr. Hemingway. I rather liked your six-word memoir. Nice to see you still remember the end to  _ The Old Man and the Sea _ .”

Rather than responding, the man continued to write.

Blinking, the Doctor looked over the writer’s shoulder once more. On the page the man wrote, “‘He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream’...”

“What?” asked the Doctor. He took the book from under Ernest’s hand and flipped through the pages. Over and over the same story was written, exactly as it had been in 1952. He looked over at Ernest, whose hand was still moving the pen as if it was still on paper. On the desk flowed the rest of the opening sentence.

“Something wrong, Mr. Hemingway?” murmured the Doctor. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and pointed it at the man. However, it made only the most pathetic of buzzing noises before sputtering out. He looked sadly at the device, wishing for the  _ n _ th time he knew where his TARDIS was, then turned his attention back to the still-writing author in front of him. “What’s going on here?” He plucked the sharp-tipped pen from Ernest’s hand and prodded him lightly with it. A bead of blood tinged with ink welled up from where it broke the skin, and the Doctor leaned in close to examine it. It was viscous and thick, like human blood always was, and it browned with oxidation as it congealed. But there was something...not just the ink near it, but the  _ way _ the ink mixed with it…

He straightened and strode back to the village. There was only one person who could answer his questions, and that person was going to talk whether he liked it or not.

Oh, yes. The Chronicler was going to tell him everything.

~~~~~

Rose wiped the sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her hoodie before taking it off completely. She had left the town center and gone back towards the house where she and the Doctor were staying a good half-hour earlier. Although she had approached several people, asking after the woman in the coat and the man with the cane, no answers were forthcoming. Most of the people she’d asked had ignored her, and those who spoke did so with disdain for her questioning. Never before had she encountered so many people who played things so close to the chest.  _ It’s like the entire place is inhabited by Time Lords _ , she thought to herself with a thin smile. Though she’d technically only ever met one, the Doctor seemed defined by his unwillingness to share himself with anyone. At least, the first one she’d met had been that way. He’d gotten better as they’d traveled, but her mum’s admonition still rang in her ears: how well  _ did _ she know him, to travel with him the way she did?

She shook her head to clear it. It didn’t matter if he was reticent. He was  _ her _ Doctor, and that was the important thing. And now one of the most important things to him was missing, vanished without a trace, and it was up to her to help him find it. She needed to find the TARDIS, not just so they wouldn’t be stuck in Elysium, but so she could prove that she was useful. She didn’t just want to be his willful, scatter-brained follower. She wanted to be worthy to be his companion. Even after all these months, after saving him and being saved, she still felt ten steps behind where she needed to be.

Tying her hoodie around her waist, she stepped off the main stone road onto a narrow dirt path. It wound between two houses towards a sparkling ribbon nearby, and she smiled. The stream. Lush grass tugged at her ankles as she moved, and she saw a willow tree down the bank. Its long arms reached for the cool water, skimming its fingers along the surface in the light breeze. It was far cooler in the shade of the tree, and she bent to splash some of the sweat from her face.

There was a sudden movement in the corner of her eye, and she looked up, startled. A tall girl, perhaps ten years old, stared at her with wide, ice-blue eyes. From behind her peeped a girl half her age. Both had the same eyes and pale, heart-shaped faces. Hair, greenish-teal, hung in loose waves down their backs. Neither wore shoes, and both wore similar white flannel nightgowns.  Rose wiped the dripping water from her cheeks and smiled warmly at them. “Well, hello, there.”

The older girl backed up. “Who are you?” she asked. There was an unexpected fierceness in her voice.

“I’m Rose,” the blonde said. “What’s your name?”

The younger girl started to say something, but the older one looked down and shook her head sharply. Staring defiantly at Rose she said, “We don’t talk to strangers. This is our tree. Go away.”

“I’m sorry,” replied Rose, taken aback. “I didn’t know it was yours. It’s a lovely tree.”

“We call it Arlo, after our daddy,” the little girl piped up. The older one glared down at her, but the little one glared right back. “She’s just one lady. She can’t hurt us.”

“You know what we were told,” countered the older girl. “We’re not supposed to tell them anything.”

Rose stepped forward. “Tell who anything?” she asked in her most friendly tone.

“About—”

“Emmalise!” hissed the older girl.

“But Willa, she’s nice! She’s not one of the bad soldiers. She’s not even armed. Look.” Emmalise pointed. “If she were armed, we’d be able to tell.”

Willa, the older girl shook her head. “Not all the weapons are like in stories. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“I’m sorry,” Rose said. “Is someone trying to hurt you?”

“The soldiers!” Emmalise chimed at the same time Willa said, “No one.”

“Soldiers?” The blonde took another step forward. Her mind raced.  _ Soldiers from where? It doesn’t look like there’s a war on, but maybe...maybe this is where the survivors are hiding? But that doesn’t explain the writers from all these different places… _ She held out her hands to show they were empty. “I have a friend with me. If you explain the situation to us, maybe we can help you. My friend, he’s called the Doctor…”

“A doctor?” asked Emmalise. “Maybe he can help Mummy—!”

“No!” Willa snapped. The fire in her tone brought tears to the little girl’s eyes, and Rose scowled at her.

“Don’t yell at her. She’s frightened,” she said. She knelt and opened her arms, and the little girl dashed over. She wrapped her arms around Rose’s neck and buried her head in her shoulder.

“Emmalise, I’m sorry,” Willa said in a placating tone. She looked at Rose “It’s just…”

“You’re in danger,” Rose finished. “I understand. But do you know what’s going on here? What this place is?”

“It’s Elysium,” the older girl said simply. “It’s supposed to be a safe place.”

The blonde looked down at the children and said, “Come with me. We need to talk to the Doctor.” She stood, cradling the younger girl in her arms, and the trio headed back towards the town.

~~~~~

The Doctor strode purposefully along the path, hurrying as fast as he could without  _ looking _ like he was hurrying. He didn’t want to alert any of the strange creatures watching that he had started to learn their secrets. He just wanted to find Rose and get her to safety. He didn’t know if these things were a new breed of Auton, or more advanced Cybermen, or some strange being that took over the bodies of the dead, but he wasn’t about to find out. He needed Rose, and once he had her, he could demand an explanation from the Chronicler. Whatever was going on, he was going to put a stop to it.

He was nearly at the house when he saw a familiar golden-headed figure in the distance walking with a pair of small children. “Rose!” he called out, jogging towards her.

“Doctor!” she responded in kind. She said something to the children, and they sped up. “Doctor, this is Willa and Emmalise, and they might know wh—”

Before his companion could even speak, the taller of the teal-haired children launched herself at him. “Murderer!” she cried, pummeling his leg with all of her might.

“What?” he said, twisting and pushing the child away at arm’s length. “What did I do?”

“Willa, stop!” ordered Rose. She reached out to pull the girl away.

“You’re the one who killed our Mum!” shouted Willa, her huge blue eyes welling with tears.

The child in Rose’s arms gasped. “Mummy...is dead?”

“Yes, Emmalise!” Willa turned, fury etched on her face. “And that man is the reason she is! He didn’t save her!”

“Wait, I’ve been with him this entire time.” Rose looked up at the Doctor, his confusion mirrored on her face. “It couldn’t have been him.”

Emmalise wriggled in Rose’s arms, struggling to get out. She pushed against Rose’s face and slid down to the ground. She threw her entire child’s weight against the Doctor’s leg in an attempt to knock him over. “You killed my mummy!” she wailed.

“What did I tell you, Emmalise? She’s a mean lady,” Willa said, tears streaming down her face and fists tight at her side. “She travels with a murderer. We need to stop them.”

“Yeah! Before they hurt Daddy, too!” The smaller girl pushed harder against the Doctor.

“Maybe we should—” Rose began, but Willa launched herself at the blonde before she could finish. The older girl’s sharp knuckles battered Rose’s sternum, nearly knocking the wind from her lungs. Rose fought to push the girl off, but rage made her stronger than any ten-year-old ought to be.

The Doctor lunged forward and dragged the child off his companion. “Stop that!” he ordered, but the girl was too furious to hear him. He prised Emmalise from his leg and thrust her into Willa’s arms. Grabbing Rose’s hand, he shouted, “Run!”

The pair dashed over the cobbles, their bruises forgotten in their haste to escape. Behind them they heard the slapping of bare feet and shouts for them to stop. The noise attracted the attention of the writers and readers they passed, and soon others joined in the chase. Rose wanted to ask where they were going, but she didn’t have the breath to spare. The Doctor wouldn’t have been able to tell her anyway—he was too intent on their destination.

The square loomed before them, and an angry mob rushed out to meet them. They threw books and wads of paper, screaming insults. Rose quickly glanced over her shoulder and saw an entire library’s-worth of authors on their tail, headed by the two angry little girls. The Doctor skidded to a stop, her hand still enveloped in his, and sucked in air.

“Doctor, what are we going to do?” asked Rose, stepping closer to him.

He squeezed her hand. “Follow me.”

With unparalleled agility he dove to the side and scrambled up the back of one of the round, grassy houses. Rose was close behind him, the toes of her sneakers digging into the packed earth. She grabbed onto weeds to help haul herself upwards, then used her momentum to stand on the roof itself. “Now what?” she shouted over the clamor of the crowd below them. A few intrepid members were already making their way up.

“We jump!” The Doctor took a few steps back and leapt to the next roof over. “C’mon!” he called, holding out his hand to her. “I’ll catch you!”

Rose looked anxiously at the mob below and the wide space between buildings. “Gymnastics. Right,” she murmured. She took a running leap and landed, hard, beside the Doctor. He helped pull her up and turned to the next building.

Again and again they crossed the square in that manner, jumping from roof to roof. The crowd followed alongside them, and behind a few more followed their jumping. No one seemed clever enough to run ahead and cut them off, not that Rose was complaining—she was too busy fighting to keep her balance and not roll down the side of one of the mound-like buildings. 

“This is our stop,” the Doctor finally said. He jumped to the ground, then held out his arms to Rose. “C’mon, in here.”

“What’s this? she asked, taking his hands and hopping at his side. The gate to the house was locked tight, and the mob was fighting the fence to get to them.

“In ya go. You’ll see.” He opened the door, pushed her inside, and ducked in behind her. He shut the door tightly and shoved a table under it. “Best we can do for the moment. Ought to hold them for a little while, anyway.

Rose looked around the dim room, taking in the rag rug on the floor and the walls full of books and the armchairs before the fireplace. “Wait…” she murmured. She turned to the Doctor. “What is this place?”

“The Chronicler’s house,” he replied. He rushed around the room yanking books from their shelves and tossing them on the floor. “Has to be around here somewhere…”

“What has to be? Doctor, what’s going on?”

“Help me look for a switch or something! A secret room. Anything!” He smashed a vase on the wooden floor, then kicked the shards away.

Trembling Rose began looking on the other side of the room. She pulled books away, littering the floor with Byron and Plath and Mishima and a dozen other famous—and dead—writers. The crowd beat at the door, fists pounding on the sturdy panels. The table began to side and beams of sunlight flickered into the room as they pressed themselves against it. “Doctor—” Rose warned.

The Doctor swept the decorations from the mantel off in a single sweep of one brown-clothed arm, then crowed with excitement. “Got it!” He pressed his palm on a small disk set in the wood and one of the bookcases swung out to reveal a long, metal hallway. “In you go!” He grabbed her and pushed her in front of him, then dove behind her and swung the bookcase shut with a clang just as the wooden door burst under the strain of the bodies pressing against it.

The artificial light in the corridor was cold and blue, and Rose leaned against the wall. Her heart raced in her chest. “What’s going on?”

“Elysium isn’t as heavenly as one might think,” he replied. He started off down the hallway. Sighing, Rose pushed herself off the wall and began to follow. “These aren’t men—not really. They’re some sort of automaton.”

“An Auton?” Rose asked shivering with the memory of the ones which tried to kill her mum back when she first met the Doctor.

“I don’t think so. These ones aren’t plastic enough. No, they’re something new, I think. And if I’m right, the Chronicler will be able to tell us all about where they come from.”

“You are right,” Rose whispered. She looked beyond the Doctor into round room sheathed in the same sort of metal as the hallway. A column rose in the center covered in dials and switches, not unlike the console of the TARDIS. Twin vats extended from either side of either wall with a narrow space between them and the edge of the pillar. In the back of the room stood a familiar blue box, the paint around its keyhole scratched.

“There you are!” exclaimed the Doctor. He ran over to it and placed his hand on the well-worn surface. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to.” He smiled.

“Doctor!” screamed Rose. He whirled around and saw two of the dead-not-dead authors holding Rose by either arm. One was a woman with a thin face and beaked nose, her dark hair twisted into a knot at the base of her neck and a long coat hanging from her skinny frame. The other was a young man with shoulder-length hair dressed like a turn-of-the-century dandy, a walking stick cast to the floor beside him.

“Open the box for us, or else we’ll kill the girl,” the woman said in a dull voice.

“Open it,” added the man primly.

The Doctor blinked, looking from figure to figure. “Oscar? Virginia?” he whispered in awe. “What are you lot doing here?”

“Open the box for us, or else we’ll kill the girl.” Virginia’s long, spidery fingers dug into Rose’s arm, and she blanched with pain. 

“We’ll kill the girl,” insisted Oscar. His perfectly-manicured nails left crescents in her flesh.

The Doctor stepped away from the TARDIS, hands up in surrender. “Let her go. We can work this out, whatever ‘this’ might be. Just explain and we’ll see if we can reach a reasonable solution, all right?”

Both figures held Rose more tightly, and she yelped in pain. They half-shoved, half-dragged her towards on of the vats, and inside she could see an orange liquid hissing and sputtering. One of the bubbles popped, splattering her jeans with flecks of crimson foam. She screamed in pain.

The Doctor’s face was white with scarcely-contained fear and anger, and he stepped forward again. He growled, “Hurt her, and you’ll deal with the one force in this universe you never want to face: me.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” a smooth voice said. Four heads turned toward the corridor as the Chronicler walked in. He stood straight, his hands clasped behind his back. His watery blue eyes were as sharp as chips of ice in his leathery face, and he had all the bearing of a commanding general.

“You—!” hissed the Doctor. He took a step forward.

The Chronicler shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that. My creations have your friend, and I shudder to think what might happen to her if you try anything foolish.”

“You creations...these were living people, once! What did you do to them?” spat the Doctor.

“I brought them back!” responded the balding man. He threw his arms wide. “I saved the when you didn’t! When you  _ refused _ to help them!”

“What?” The Doctor’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘refused’? I never even met these people! I only know their books because I’ve  _ read _ them!”

“You’ve had lifetimes to save them! They died because you’ve chosen not to. All of these people—they needed you, Doctor, and you failed them!”

Rose looked into the Doctor’s face and saw his mind calculating. He was trying to figure out what to say next, the words that would allow them to escape in the TARDIS without anyone getting hurt. She saw the anger in his eyes, and the fear for her safety. She tensed and relaxed her muscles, seeing if there was any way to free herself, but the creatures, whatever they were, held tight. 

The orange liquid in the vats bubbled viciously.

The Doctor took a step back towards the TARDIS. “Just let Rose go. Let her go into the TARDIS, and you and I can have whatever discussion we need to. But Rose—she isn’t part of this. Your fight is with me, not her.”

“Doctor, no!” Rose shouted. She bit back further protest when he turned his gaze on her. 

The Chronicler tapped his chin with one finger, as if considering his options. “I don’t think so,” he said after a moment, a broad grin splitting his fishy lips. “If I do, you might find a way to get out before receiving a suitable punishment for your lack of concern for others.”

“What are you talking about? Tell me your story, and I’ll do whatever I can to make it up to you,” the Doctor said. He took a step towards him.

The balding man held up one hand. “You live your life among the stars, Doctor. You flit from planet to planet like a lightning bug in the night. People believe in you. They hear your stories and think of you as a hero. They tell the legends of the Doctor, of the time he saved this species or that planet from utter destruction. They say you’ve saved the universe. Have you saved the universe, Doctor?”

His hands where the Chronicler could see them, the Doctor said softly, “Yes.”

“So you see my point, then? People trust in you. They believe in you. Some of them even  _ pray _ to you. And when they’re in trouble, when their entire world is collapsing around them, they look to the sky and shout, ‘Doctor, save us! We need the Doctor!’” He glared at the Time Lord. “But you don’t always come, do you?  _ Do you _ ?!”

Quietly, sadly, the Doctor answered, “No.”

“And those people who you don’t save, who you  _ refuse _ to save, they die!” The Chronicler stepped forward, jabbing one finger in the Doctor’s direction. “You call yourself ‘Doctor.’ You’re supposed to be a healer, someone to make everything better. Doctor’s are supposed to heal things. Bah,” he spat. “Doctor? Doctor  _ who _ ?”

Before the Doctor could respond, childish voices and slapping feet echoed down the corridor. A pair of girls appeared, their nightgowns and teal hair flying behind themselves. “Daddy!” the little one cried.

“Dad!” yelled the elder.

“Girls!” the Chronicler said. He swept them both up in a hug. “My girls, I told you to stay by the tree.”

“We were trying to stop the bad people!” Emmalise chirped.

“I tried to stop her, Dad, but she wouldn’t listen—” Willa began to explain.

“Wait, these are your little girls?” asked Rose. She jerked against the grip of her captors. “They were all alone by the river! Why would you let them go there by themselves!”

“Dad’s important. He’s got things he has to do,” the older girl said matter-of-factly. “It’s not his fault we’re alone all the time. Mum would be with us if that bad Doctor had saved her!”

“Yeah! Willa takes care of me, and Daddy comes to visit when he can!” added Emmalise.

The Doctor started, then closed his eyes. As clear as day he sees it: a town on fire, needle-nosed jets dropping bombs from above, whistles and crashes and screams. A pair of little girls in nightgowns, one carrying the other, reaching out for his hand, straining when—

“Calabraxis,” he whispered. 

Everyone stared at the Doctor.

“Calabraxis. The War. It was in the capital. Fighters from Anatarsis attacked, and there were two children. I got there too late. The bomb went off before I could save them. Betro wouldn’t—” He opened his eyes, dark with an ancient sadness. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The Chronicler held his daughters tighter. “They died because you wouldn’t save them, Doctor! All of them—all of them gone because you didn’t do your duty!”

“I tried!” shouted the Doctor. “I can’t be everywhere at once!”

“You travel in time! You can be wherever you want to be!” accused the balding man. His children—the facsimiles of his children huddled against him. 

“I can’t!” The Doctor stepped forward, fire burning in his face. “I can’t. I travel and save who I can. Sometimes I make it. Other times...other times I can’t. And I don’t get any second tries. What happens happens. I’m...I have to live with that. I’ll hold it in my hearts every second of every day, from now until I die. I couldn’t save your children. I couldn’t save your people. I...I couldn’t save mine, either.” He hung his head, his hands limp at his sides. “And I’m so, so sorry.”

The Chronicler was silent for a long moment, and Rose took a deep breath. Silently she sent a prayer to the universe that he would let them go.

But the universe didn’t listen. “Throw her in,” he said thickly, gesturing towards Rose. “Let her life be on your conscience, too, Doctor.”

“No!” Rose screamed as the creatures holding her thrust her towards the boiling vat.

“Not today!” The Doctor dove forward and slapped his hand on a button on the column. The entire beam shuddered, then a brilliant light flashed. Rose felt it surge through her body, pushing her back away from the vat. She was thrown to the ground between the two creatures. Their grasp went slack, and she scrambled away from them, backing against the curved metal wall. The vats steamed and hissed, and through the clouds rising from each she could see the strong sternness of the Doctor’s face. His eyebrows were knit tightly, but even in his grave expression she could see the pain in his eyes. Turning her gaze on the Chronicler, she suddenly understood why.

The balding man knelt on the ground, cradling the lifeless bodies of his daughters. Their faces were as placid as dolls’, their eyes glassy and hollow, their limbs limp, their hair dull as yarn. “Willa…” he whispered. “Emmalise…” He buried his head in their cloth bodies and howled.

~~~~~

“There was a binary system, twin planets circling the same sun: Calabraxis and Anatarsis,” the Doctor began, manipulating switches on the console of the TARDIS. Rose leaned against the railing, her arms crossed, the thick fabric of her hoodie hiding the purple bruises the creatures had given her. “Anatarsis was ruled by a queen, and Calabraxis was ruled by a priestess. Traditionally, the queen of Anatarsis married the brother of the priestess. That way they’d always do what was best for both planets.” He flipped a switch. “That was the goal, anyway.”

Rose nodded.

“But one day the queen, Anora, traveled to Calabraxis to meet and marry her husband. His name was Betro. He was a vain and jealous man, spoiled from birth because he knew his sister was going to be ruler of one planet. He thought he could bully Anora into letting him rule the other. But it doesn’t always work out like one plans. Anora landed and had dinner with her future in-laws...and met Stelara.”

“The priestess?” guessed the blonde.

“The priestess,” agreed the Doctor. “Love at first sight. A shapely ankle.” He walked around the console and pressed a complicated sequence of buttons. “Betro was angry, and he locked Stelara up in a tower. Told her that she could rule from there—and, if she couldn’t, he’d rule for her. Anora found out and sent troops to rescue Stelara. She knew it was going against tradition, but she thought...well, she wanted to change things. Betro fought back. Anora’s ship was destroyed, and she was killed. Stelara saw the wreckage crash into the sea from her tower, and watched as the armies of Anatarsis attacked the cities of Calabraxis.”

“The War,” Rose murmured. She chewed on her thumb, her heart aching. The memory of the Chronicler’s cries echoed in her head.

“Stelara called her brother to the top of the tower, telling him to leave his generals below. Only two soldiers were allowed to come up to record what was said so everyone would know. For posterity. Stelara denounced her brother. Called him a coward and a murderer. She stabbed him with a knife, then told the soldiers with him that the war was over. That it died with her. She leapt from the tower.”

“The one soldier turned to the other. They needed to get word to the troops. One ran down the stairs to tell the generals. The other…” The Doctor leaned against the console, his palms flat on the edge, his head bowed. “The other got in his blue box and rushed to try to save everyone he could.”

“Doctor…” Rose said. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but was rooted in place. His eyes closed tight. The pain of the memories was clear on his face.

“I was younger then. I wore a different skin. But I still failed. All those people...those two little girls…”

“It wasn’t your fault, Doctor. You tried, didn’t you? Even if you couldn’t manage it, you still tried…”

He looked up, his eyes wet. “And look where it got us. I nearly got you killed because of my failure.”

Now Rose walked over to him. Gently she wrapped her arms around the Time Lord, rubbing his back as he shook. “You saved me today, Doctor. And you might have saved him. The Chronicler. He’s in a place where he can get better. You said yourself that New-New York has the best hospital in the universe, especially now that you’ve fixed it. And those others...there’s nothing you could have done. You did your best.”

He nodded into her shoulder and pushed her away. Without a word he pressed a button on the console and the scraping, sawing noise of the TARDIS in flight echoed in their ears. After a moment, it stopped. The Doctor walked to the door and pushed it open. 

A cobblestone square stood before them, bordered on each side by tall, narrow brick buildings. Trees shaded the tables dotting the space, and chattering groups of teal-haired people with pale skin and colorful dress enjoyed the mild, sunny day. Rose stepped out, her nose filled with the scent of flowers and spicy food, and she looked back at the Doctor. “What is this place?”

He nodded towards the obelisk in the center of the square. It soared to a point far overhead, but at the base there was a metal plaque. The TARDIS matrix translated the words automatically for Rose, and she read aloud, “‘In memory of the lives lost in the War, we build this pillar to help their souls reach heaven.’” She turned to the Doctor who stood behind her. “This is Calabraxis, then?”

He nodded.

She turned back to the plaque. “‘And in loving honor of my daughters, Willa and Emmalise Homer. May you live forever in Elysium.’” Rose’s voice caught in her throat, and the words blurred before her. “He got better,” she whispered.

“He had to. He had to tell the story,” the Doctor said softly. He reached out and put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We have more of our own tales to write.”

Rose wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Right.” She turned and looked up into his eyes. “Where do we go next?

 

**End**


End file.
